The walk was hard for me, a man with a gut full of calzone. The trip was entirely uphill, yet, as I breathed and my heart beat faster, I felt peaceful as I walked. The traffic and the rhythm of my steps calmed me. It was like the tap of a metronome, soft, steady and dependable. The snow left over from the small storm we had the week before was melting. It made small creeks of gravel and water that roved down the hill, towards the mountain. The road was black and wet. It shimmered under the melt that this brief escape from winter had brought. The yellow line down the middle, its even dashes glistened. As I looked at the wet road I tasted the dry grit of toothpaste in my mouth.

…..

It’s great to see winter melt away, even if it will come back soon. Eventually winter will really leave. I’ll stop being depressed, and in the spring…I’m going to make changes. But for now I’ll be cold and sullen because that is how the winter makes me feel.

…..

A police man stood at the corner of one of the intersections, silent and sheathed in navy, with ticket books and weapons pulling down on his belt, yet he had perfect posture despite the weight that hung from his waist. I liked to believe that it was the tight pants, which rode up his ass that helped him to stand so straight. He looked around, watched the different sections of the street, and saw me. He recognized me, and I too had seen him many times before. I waved and smiled. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. I had to restrain from chuckling at his gesture. I didn’t like to label him as an average, coy cop, but maybe some stereotypes are a perfect fit. Maybe.

…..

Todd watched me get beat up. Maybe that’s why I killed the frogs in front of him. I wanted him to feel guilty for letting me get hurt. He had seen me take pain, so it only seemed fair that he see me create pain too………………….. I want to fight somebody today.

…..

I continued to walk up the hill.

“Looking a little winded Bear,” I heard from behind me. I stopped and turned around.

“Hey Coach. How’s it going?” I said.

“Sound out of breath?and look at this shit,” he said as he pointed at my gut. “Fuck, Bear. You need some training.”

He was looking older and older with each encounter like this.

“We’ve talked about this Coach,” I said.

“Yep. We do. Once a year, right.”

“I guess.”

“How’s the store. Exciting shit, right,” he said as he shook his head.

“I don’t mind it.”

“Bullshit, Bear. You know damn well that you ain’t supposed to be working at some grocery stand.”

“It’s a little bigger than a stand Coach.”

I folded my arms in front of my chest.

“Don’t fuck with me Bear. You know what I’m talking about.”

“The same thing you always talk about,” I said.

“Yeah?but now you’re getting short on fuckin time.”

“Listen Coach. I don’t want to have this chat again. Let’s not talk about it?So how’s the team. Any promise?”

He stared at me, like he was making sure of something.

“Fine Bear…. Actually, this one fucking kid?shit. He’s got a record like you did. Undefeated.”

“That’s great Coach,” I said.

I unfolded my arms and put my left hand in my pocket.

“Yeah. Different type of fighter, goes the distance a lot. He just out boxes the competition…. But he doesn’t destroy, like you used to.”

I stayed silent and put my other hand in my pocket.

“Damn, Bear. You never had one fight that made it to the third round. Not one. Even the State fucking Championship. We still talk about that fight up in the gym,” he said.

“Yeah…. That was quite a fight,” I said.

“You know, Bear?Hey, look at me?You know what happened to the other guy? The guy whose face you nearly knocked clean the fuck off?”

“No Coach. I don’t even know his name.”

“Sullivan. Luther Sullivan, and he’s pro now.”

He stepped closer and jabbed his finger into my gut.

“Watch it, Coach.”

“Watch it? This fucking thing says ‘Watch it?’ Did you hear me? He’s pro, and you knocked him out. You know what I’m saying you fat fucking idiot?” he said.

He spit on the street.

“Take it easy Coach. Were friends. You’re not my trainer any more.”

I folded my arms again and puffed out my chest as I leaned back.

“Well the sight of you tells me that much.?Shit, Bear. For years we’ve had this goddamned talk, and you know what…. We’re not going to have it again. You could get in shape. I could get you an

exhibition match, get you ranked. Shit, it’s easy. You just got to wake up and do it. Fuck. You’re wasting your talent.”

He ran his wrinkled hand over his forehead.

“Maybe it’s worth wasting Coach. I gave it up.”

“Yes you did. You gave up a lot,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it…. This is pointless.”

“No, Coach. What do you mean by that?”

“You want to know what I fucking mean?”

“Yes.”

I stepped back and put my arms on my waist.

“All right tough guy…. You’re a taker, that’s what you are. You just take things but you don’t give back shit. It’s just like the way you fight. It’s over quick, never goes the distance. That’s you. You take things, but you never go the fucking distance with them. Hell, you took time and effort from me. I worked hard on you, put my whole fucking heart into it, took you right to the point where the whole fucking thing opens up, and you do nothing. You just run with it like a goddamned thief?And even worse than that, you take the talent that God himself gave you and you run away with it instead of using it to give something back.”

“Give what back? Pain? Give hope to the gamblers?”

“NOTHING is pure in the hands of men Bear. Remember that. But talent, natural talent, if it used as it’s supposed to be, well?shit…. That’s the purest thing any man could make. But you won’t give anything. You take Bear, and you run away with it….and…dammit…. You’re breaking my heart.”

He stopped and removed his grey cap. His flannel shirt was worn thin at the elbows, and his grey slacks were wrinkled.

“It’s not what I want, Coach. That’s all I can say.”

With his free hand he pulled at his chin.

“I’m done Bear. I’m retiring after this spring.”

“Good luck, Coach,” I said.

“Fuck you, Bear. You ruined me, you know.  I coach twenty-seven years at this school, and only once do I get a contender on my team. And he quits, and you think this town’s laughing at you?… Well they are, a little?but who do you think they’re laughing at more. Me! And you know why?? Because they know exactly what you took from me, and it’s funny to them that I didn’t see it coming. It’s funny to them that I couldn’t tell that you had no fuckin heart, and no desire to be anything more than a…grocery clerk.”

“C’mon Coach.”

“You wasted me, Bear, and I’m leaving. I only hope the kid I got now does something with this talent. I’d like not to feel worthless when I retire.”

“Coach, you know I didn’t?”

“Enough, Bear. You know I love you, but I also can’t fucking stand you…. I’m gonna walk back down the hill…. I don’t feel like following you anymore.”

“Coach.”

He put on his cap, frowned, turned and walked down the hill. He never looked back, but he shook his head a lot. I turned and walked up the hill.

…..

It was cold at the top of the mountain. It was darker and the wind made noises like a long, continuous exhale of whispers. There were pine trees and trails, all around me, labeled with different shapes and colors. Coach and I had already done a few runs on the bunny hill. I was beginning to get the carving down. Side to side, the scraping means you’re slowing. Although, I could have used a few more tries, but Coach got impatient, and said that he was ‘tired of standing in one place with so many pansies.’ He said he was ‘embarrassed to be right-the-fuck in the middle of a parade of falling idiots.’ I think he was telling lies though. I think he was tired of holding back laughs.

Coach told me to follow the green trails, that they were the easiest ones.

The worst part at first was trying to walk with those plastic planks for shoes. Coach looked like he was ice skating, shifting from one ski to the other. I tried to mimic him, but I fell. Then he laughed. I got up and tried stepping with the skis, but my tips got crossed, and I fell again. Annoyed, I got up and decided to keep my skis as steady as I could and just push myself along with my poles. It was quite a workout. When we finally got to the edge, the start of the trail, my arms were sore.

“Alright,” he said. “All you have to do is keep turning from one side to the next, until we get to the bottom.”

“OK.”

“Now, remember….Turning is not so much in the legs. You have to shift your weight, just like throwing a punch, but instead of shifting your shoulders, you shift your center. There is little arms in this. It’s more the whole weight of your body.”

“OK.”

“After every turn you prepare for the next. There is no coasting, and there is no break in the shifting. It’s almost like you’re riding a big coil. Go down left then go down right, one motion, guided by your center.”

“OK,” I said.

“You got it!” he said.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’m behind you……………Go.”

I pushed off. The slope, at first, was gradual and I turned side to side, one motion, down the coil. But soon, the hill got steeper. I’d get going fast and then sometimes turn too much and spin all the way around…and start going backwards down the mountain until I awkwardly flung my legs in directions they had never gone and fell…a thousand different ways.

The trip down the mountain took so long. I’d start carving like I was supposed to until I gained too much speed and I either got tied up and crossed or just plain bailed out. When we finally got to the bottom Coach looked like the angriest man in the world after an hour of laughter. He was angry because I skied poorly, but he was mostly angry because when we got to the bottom the lifts were all closed. He also looked more exhausted than I did. The only sentence he had the patience enough speak contained two words, which he sounded like a disappointed father… “Fucking awful.”

It was the best moment of the entire day, when fifteen minutes later I finally took those torturous boots off my bruised legs and feet.

I had hated skiing. Mostly because of the speed. I didn’t like moving so fast. I felt as if I had no control, and even though I knew that the point of the sport was to gain that control, it was control with great speed, and I didn’t care to have it. The whole idea was to start off and gain speed, and keep going—and when the trail narrows you keep your speed—and then a dip or a steep bend and you’re moving faster—and more turns and faster and more turns and faster—and then a straight drop and you gain tremendous speed unless you monitor it by turning yourself back and forth across the girth of the terrain—and faster yet—and narrow and wide until the bottom opens up wider and straight for you to flaunt the final speed of your trip from start. But I like to stop, and I did stop, a lot, either with my skis or with my ass. In my mind it was only the trail that wanted speed and I didn’t. I was on the trail and that’s what mattered. I didn’t want to finish it as fast as others did…. Then again, I didn’t have the skills to try…and I don’t want to have them.

…..

I was winded when I reached the parking lot of my grocery store. I walked through the lined slots and cars. I walked into the store, through the electric doors, and I was there, all at once, at work.
I liked my job, but I have to admit that the environment carried with it some interesting quirks. The colors in the store flowed with organization. The machines in front, the checkout aisles too flowed a repeated pattern. The fluorescent lights were not lit just so you could see what was in your cart. They made the laundry detergent and the cola cans glow, as if to suggest ‘I am better.’ The items for women, like lotions and deodorants were packaged with extravagant shapes, like diamonds or intricate columns. Yet, the items for men were packed in simple squares. ‘Grunt.’ The poor and the rich, large and small, the fat lady in the electric wheelchair?children playing hide-and-seek with themselves as they knocked over jars of spaghetti sauce. “Clean up, aisle 6.” My clerks, my team, who have all the answers, who know where everything is in the store yet they keep it to themselves. They keep a dumb stare when customers ask for help.

The selling of food takes into account the importance of privacy. Don’t look in someone else’s basket, that’s for their body…. And there’s the college kids who buy 18 packs of cheap, domestic beer, and the cold aisles, the deli counter with its long line. “What’s your number?”, “Is the potato salad fresh?” ? People grab boxes of Stove Top or mac-n-cheese without paying attention, but eggs need to be examined. There’s the diaper aisle with the mothers. There’s the boy buying tampons for his girlfriend. He watches people closely, as if there is a sniper hidden somewhere behind the wall of tuna fish. There’s the long stretch of meat, and the tripe. I’d never seen anyone buy the tripe, but somehow it gets sold. I guess I just miss it when it happens. They are my white whales, the tripe buyers. And then you have the novelty aisle where you can buy a four-dollar toy for your kid so he shuts up and quits eying the Fruit Loops. There are many categories of people to discover at the grocery store. There are the gossipers and their circle of secrets. There are also the silent ones who linger through the store, and those that scurry in and scurry out, a quick stop for a few things.

There I was, the boss of this hectic ritual. This was my realm, my forest for the modern-day hunter-gatherers, and knowing that I was in charge didn’t do anything to make me feel less benign. This big ceremony was merely a simple job for me. All I really did was answer questions, handle the upset customers, order the food, check up on my staff, do the books, sign the checks, and mostly, sit and swivel in my office chair.

…..

What else could I have done? This was given to me. I left the bank, I left Cary. I had nothing. I had no idea what I was going to do. The whole town was against me. They gave me looks, shook their heads as they passed me. “That poor girl,” they’d whisper. Everybody, they all had so many opinions that they were too afraid to tell me. I could have taken it, if they had given me the chance to deal with their thoughts. Instead, I had to imagine all the ways that they judged me without ever knowing for sure.

And then one day I’m grocery shopping, feeling like the biggest, rankest piece of shit there is. I was paranoid. My mind couldn’t stop supposing what everybody thought of me as they passed me in the aisles. But Mr. Turner wasn’t like them. He had no fear, and he told me what he was thinking.

He’s nice old man, a friend of mine by his choice only. He loved his job.

“Seems to me like you need something to do with your time,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me to box again,” I said.

“No son, I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“I do want to ask you something though,” he said.

“What is it Mr. Turner?”

“It’s time for me to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Working…. Even though I do love it here.”

“So…you’re retiring, is that it?”

“Yes son, I am,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

“Well thank you,” he said.

“Do you have any plans?”

“A whole lot. Figure I’m going to live the dream retirement. I’m traveling, all over the world. I’m going to see the pyramids, go to Venice, the French Riviera.”

“That sounds wonderful sir,” I said.

“I’m sure it will be, but that’s not why I stopped you.”

“OK?What is it?”

“I love this store too much to leave it to strangers.”

“Sure.”

He gave me deep stare as he put his old hand on my shoulder.

“How would you like to run the place for me?” he said.

I didn’t expect that.

“I don’t understand. Why would you ask me?”

“It’s like I said, son. It seems to me like you need something to occupy your time now. Unless you already have a job. Do you?”

“No sir.”

“Well. I’m offering this. There’s not much to it.”

“I don’t know.”

“The community will respect you,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s possible anymore.”

“Oh, get over yourself, son. People have their own problems. Not everybody is spending their private time caring about your romances. Don’t be so selfish.”

“But.”

“Listen to me. You’ll be providing food and drink, things we all need, and most of us enjoy. Looks like you enjoy your food and drink, big fellow. You’d be good for the job. You’re smart and personable.”

“Thank You,” I said.

“I like you, son, and if you do this for the community, they will like you too. Just make sure not to over price and you’ll be the toast of the town.”

He chuckled.

I didn’t take too much time to think about it. I just agreed. He was right. I did need something to do.

“Sure Mr. Turner. I’ll take the job.”

“Very good, son,” he said.

…..

I was only about six feet into the store when Bosco, my Assistant Manager, rushed at me with that glib and useless personality of his and said, “Boss, there’s a problem with Irwin.

Bosco was irritating, a kind of ambiguous type of irritating. I guess he thought that he was an effective associate, but most thought he was a prick. I don’t know why he was such a prick. I never asked him to be. What made me most uncomfortable about him, I guess, in the saddle of my authority, was that I had no idea what it was about the rim of my ass that made Bosco crave it so much. He was always up it. To stereotype, I think he was one of those guys that do really well as an assistant or as second in command, but never quite climb that last step, never actually lead anything, never have the full respect and therefore never accomplish what they really want to. They are blind, a sad race of mole people. Bosco had no sights of his own, and I didn’t hold that against him. My colon must surely be a dark place.

…..

That’s not fair of me to say. I’m not respected. I’m a joke mostly.

…..

“What do you mean, ‘there’s a problem with Irwin’?” I said.

“He doesn’t do his work,” he said.

“How so Bosco?”

“Well, I asked him to change the price signs in the produce section. There’s only about twenty signs to change. You left that in your instructions, and I asked Irwin to do it at ten o’clock. It’s now twelve thirty and only nine of them have been changed. I counted. He just doesn’t listen to what he’s told. He looks like he’s pouting about something. I don’t now. It doesn’t matter, right??Before. I caught him just wandering around, and then standing still with his hands in his pockets, just staring at the broccoli, hardly even blinking. I tried to tell him. ‘Irwin,’ I said, ‘Mr. Bouchard wants this done.’ He barely moved. He just looked at me and said ‘I’m doing it.’ ‘That’s not what I call doing your job Irwin,’ I said. ‘That’s what I call daydreaming.’ And then he said something that I didn’t understand at all. He said, ‘you know Bosco, I’m the hanged man,’ whatever that means. So I said, ‘You can be the hanged man on your own time, not Mr. Bouchard’s.’ And like I said, I just checked and only nine of them are done. I just finished writing him up. I left it on your desk. I figured you’d want that,” he said.

…..

It was while working at the bank when I first had doubts about marrying Cary. When I sat there, in front of the computer, pressing buttons that took money from strangers, everything in my life started to seem completely pointless. I wasn’t comfortable with anything that was in my head. Pointless, pointless shit. Maybe it was only the job. I don’t know. I hated it so much, but I attached Cary to it all.

Dammit. I had pledged my life to her, my whole self was hers and all I felt was sadness. What life was I going to give her. A sad one? I felt sad. I felt out-of-place and I felt uncomfortable. And then I began to believe that my life was wrong, that I was living it wrong at least. My whole life? I wasn’t in college anymore. It wasn’t hope that led me through dream filled days anymore. Life was painful and real. It was stagnant…. I convinced myself in that little cube while I looked at Cary’s picture pinned to my fabric wall that I was living the wrong life. I must have been living someone else’s life.

…..

“Actually Bosco, that’s not what I want at all. What I really want is for you to be able to deal with the problem. Not just notate it.”

Bosco’s face fell, like he was about to cry.

“But Boss, how do you suppose I deal with it?”

“I guess I suppose you don’t.”

There was an awkward silence between us. I had cut him down and I could tell that he felt small.

…..

I love most women and hate most men. Maybe because I’m lonely…or maybe it’s my own self loathing coupled with my intense desire to fall into a love that never turns to guilt.

…..

“Forget it Bosco. Just get that write-up off of my desk, throw it out and make sure you do everything I left for you in my memo. Have you placed the bread order yet?”

“Sir, I didn’t have time. Irwin’s like a little baby. You have to constantly watch him to get him to do his work.”

“I don’t need you to be a camera Bosco, and I don’t need you to babysit either. I need you to make the bread order, OK?”

“Man…. You’re in a bad mood today,” he said, low and hushed.

“Bosco, get out of here,” I said, louder than anything I had said since I woke up.

“I’m gone boss.”

He left.

That was the first time I ever let Bosco piss me off. Dammit, do something, you little prick. I felt a little too grouchy to deal with him. A little too irritated to deal with ridiculous, butt-kissing, shit-licking presumptions, and dammit…. He couldn’t read my mind. All that crap about knowing what I wanted. God dammit, I like Irwin, and she’s pregnant, by who?—is he good to her?—Shit. It’s none of my business, and what’s Coach mean ‘I’m a taker.’ Take what? I don’t have shit. I have nothing. Dammit….

Breathe…

…..

Irwin’s only eighteen, a senior in High School. His father’s the town drunk, thanks to the lottery. He used to drive the bus to Port Authority now he’s the richest man in town. He won the largest ever state lottery jackpot, close to $300 million. Made the Jones family television regulars for a while after that. I remember all the parties he threw after he won….  I went to one…. Irwin was much younger then. His father got impressively drunk at those parties. I remember how he danced around in his underpants, and screamed to everyone, “You know what, guys? I deserve this, I’m a hard-working guy. And it’s about time someone other than Hollywood faggots earned the big bucks,” as he hopped around with a bottle of Champagne in his grip.

That was the first time I met Irwin, and I didn’t even see his face. While his father was dancing, drinking and offending just about everyone, Irwin, probably about thirteen years old, was up in his room, playing his saxophone. He was good. You could tell he had much to learn. I guess, more musical vocabulary, as Cary used to put it…Anyway…despite that, his playing was beautiful, and true. Each docile note that rang from the bell of his bent horn sung of a young man, ashamed of his father and too embarrassed to show his face. His music moved me, made me feel something inside about … myself. He brought my own sorrows to the surface, and it was an amazing experience. Irwin, alone in his room, played only what was true to him … and his feelings sounded a lot like mine.

Lester Jones eventually stopped throwing parties, and he gave up his job. He had money now, enough to live as he always had, in the same house, with his same fondness for Oscar Meyer, but now, instead of spending his days behind the wheel of a bus full of commuters, he chose to sit alone and pour liquor down his throat. And so he became Lester Jones, the drunk of New Guernsey, the richest man in town.

It’s been years since those parties, and Irwin has learned the most eloquent musical vocabulary I have ever had the pleasure to witness in oratory. Every Sunday, at the Mirage, the local bar with a jazz night, Irwin plays and I go to watch and listen. He doesn’t have his own band, but no matter what band is playing, Irwin has the invite to go up and play with them. He is an honored guest. When he gets up on the small, corner stage he rarely looks at the crowd. He just plays, with his mouth around the horn, and his eyes firmly shut he makes every hair on your body stand, and every memory in your heart surface. When he finishes, he smiles, looks back into nowhere, and the crowd hollers. Irwin Jones is my favorite person in New Guernsey. I enjoy seeing him. I enjoy signing his paycheck. Because I am curious about him. Because I want what he has inside of him. I want to make something beautiful.

He’s been here ever since his father brought him in this fall. I remember that Lester wasn’t drunk, but he smelled like he was. He started telling me that it was time for Irwin to do something with his life, to have some responsibility, rather than ‘dilly-dally’ with that instrument of his. “We can’t have our Irwin turning into one of those music Nancy-boys, and you, Mr. Bouchard, the boxing Bear, are the man to teach Irwin the value of hard work. Enough of this saxophone mumbo-jumbo, right? The world needs less doped up, degenerate musicians, and more men like us. Workers that earn respect, have discipline, and have a fistful of dollars to show for it. Real men. Maybe you can help me prove to Irwin that this music wish-wash gets you nowhere. Maybe bagging groceries is a good place to start,” he said. His breath was poison. I remember thinking about picking him up by his dirty collar, dragging him over to the deli counter, where I would beat him senseless with a log of bologna. But … that would have been wrong of me, and I guess it was the sight of Irwin, as he stood in the background, bowing his head and biting his lip that made me say nothing in response to Lester Jones, and his cumbrous ignorance. Poor Irwin has to live with that man. Irwin seemed so weak when I looked at him and simply asked, “Irwin, do you want to work for me? You’re father’s right. This job will get you out of the house, but you have to want that. Do you?” Lester answered for him, but I did not accept it. “Mr. Jones, I need to hear it from Irwin,” I said. And I’ll never forget how Irwin raised his head, cocked it slightly, and made a crooked smile before he said, “At this point, I’d do it for free.”

I hired him. It was my choice. Why does Bosco have to come up, complaining to me about ‘incompetent Irwin’. Fuck you Bosco. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what Irwin has to live with, and if you do, I doubt you care. I can imagine thousands and thousands of things Lester probably says to Irwin, each like a dull knife stuck through the one thing he loves. And so, I let Irwin slide, and I always will. It’s my call. I’m the boss. Besides, Irwin didn’t agree to work. I made him agree to be here, which he always is, on time and sometimes early…and even though Irwin doesn’t care about the money, I pay him anyway.

…..

I went to see what was bothering Irwin. I was at least going to try to inspire him to do some work. Sometimes you have to be a diplomat when you’re the boss.

I walked into the produce section, and looked for Irwin. I was pretty sure that he was yet to finish the job that Bosco had given him, and I was right. There Irwin was, staring at the kale, and he seemed like he didn’t see anything at all. It was like the lost stare I had seen him show on the stage of the Mirage. A stare without focus. Wide-eyed, pupils dilated as if he was in a dark room of his own thoughts. He looked sad, but he did not frown. His lips were a level horizon, and his shoulders drooped. His cheeks looked loose, and his eyebrows each modestly sloped down towards the bridge of his nose. His head too seemed to fall, yet tilted towards his right shoulder. His hands were unfurled and his fingers were spread wide, and a little bent. I wandered up to him. He did not see me as I came. He didn’t appear to see anyone. He shook his head and stooped it lower, towards the floor. I placed my hand on his shoulder, quickly, as I hoped to startle him. But rather than jump, he merely turned around slowly and said,

“Hey boss.”

…..

What will happen to Irwin? Something incredible, I hope.

…..

“What’s up, Irwin?” I said.

“I’ve had better days,” he said.

His voice was soft and tired.

“You know, Irwin, I usually like to have two cups of coffee before I have to listen to Bosco whine about what you either are or aren’t doing,” I said.

Irwin stayed silent, and didn’t move or even sway.

A customer walked up and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey George,” I said.

“Hello Mr. Bouchard, can I trouble you for a moment?” he said.

“Sure.”

“I have question about something,” he said

“What is it George?”

“Well, the sale papers I got in the mail say that asparagus is 99¢ a bunch, but the sign says $1.49 a bunch. I don’t want to be a stickler, but…. It’s printed in the papers.”

I smiled at George.

“Don’t worry George. The papers are correct. We’re actually changing the produce signs now.”

“Oh.”

“And they’ve already been registered in the computers. You can take as much asparagus as you want, it’s 99¢ a bunch…and actually?” I began to whisper, “when you get to the checkout, whisper to the clerk that Mr. Bouchard said that you could have one bunch for free?but, whisper. I don’t want others to hear you and start asking for free asparagus of their own.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” he whispered back.

“How’s Sharon?” I said.

“She’s doing…better. The doctors say that the chemo’s working…. It just makes her so weak. But…we’re fighting it.”

“I’m sure you’ll win.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“Well, make her a nice dinner, and wish her well for me, OK?”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Any time George,” I said.

George walked over to the asparagus.

Irwin stood still, and waited for me like a soldier expecting to be punished. Yet, Irwin didn’t look bothered by it. He just looked sad.

“Irwin. Let’s have a talk in my office,” I said as managerial as I could sound.

“What about the signs, boss?” he said.

I looked around.

“Hey Will!” I yelled across the aisles.

Will, another one of my employees was stacking salad dressing on the shelves across from the apples. He heard me, turned around, and hurried over to where Irwin and I stood.

“Yeah  boss,” he said.

“Do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Finish changing the signs for the produce sale. Here’s the price sheet.”

I picked it up off the ground, where Irwin had placed it.

“Can you do that for me?” I said.

Irwin looked surprised.

“OK boss…but isn’t that Irwin’s job? I still have to finish stocking Aisle 1,” he said. He whined, just a little.

“Irwin and I are going to have a talk in my office. Just do it for me please. If you want, you can have Maureen help you.”

Will smiled.

“Tell Bosco that I told you it was OK,” I said.

“OK,” he said.

“Please do it quickly, though.”

“You got it.”

Will ran to find Maureen.

Will and Maureen had just begun dating. I was glad. They really seemed to like each other. Sometimes, I’d spy them as they smiled at each other from opposite sides of the store. I could tell that all it took was one quick exchange of a smile to keep their spirits, and their faces aglow for the rest of their shift. They wanted to keep it a secret from the rest of the store though, and I told no one. The only reason that I knew was because one time I walked in on them as they kissed in the back of the stockroom. I hadn’t meant to intrude. I was going to check in the shipment. They were scared and embarrassed, afraid that I was going to lecture them, or maybe even punish them for kissing on the grocery store’s time. I could tell this by the looks on their startled, pale faces. Of course I didn’t punish them. I just turned my head, looked away from them and said, “I won’t tell,” and left them alone. They way I figure, romance doesn’t have a time. Romance is time, something we live under the aegis of, an entity one can’t elude, and in its containment we define miracle.

“Let’s go Irwin,” I said.

…..

With pack animals, the lonely are either outcasts or leaders. Some are born into the lonely life. Some were once leaders, and some were once outcasts. But basically, it all comes down to how you deal with being lonely. You either accept it and stay still, or you accept it and rise…or fall.

…..

I walked him back through the aisles. He followed a few steps behind. He bumped into a customer, and I apologized for him. Irwin didn’t say a word. We were close to my office, my comfortable square with my comfortable chair and my impeccable, clean desk. I opened the door.

“C’mon Irwin.”

He stepped in to my office like an old man steps into a cold pool, careful, and patient. I closed the door behind us.

“Have a seat Irwin.”

He sat down. His body was stretched and slanted across the seat. His chin fell into his chest and his arms laid limp on the armrests.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you were going to be scolded in front of Will, but you do understand why I had to,” I said.

His eyes looked bland and his lips smirked to the left.

“We all want to feel equal at work, Irwin, especially when it comes to how much were demanded of…but…I don’t want to lecture you.”

“That’s good. I forgot my notebook anyway,” he said.

“That’s cute Irwin.”

He sighed and studied every detail of my office, except me who sat in front of him.

“Listen, Irwin. I’m not angry. Honest. We’re talking about vegetables. We’re not discussing world peace, or he end of oppression, or the cure of disease. We’re talking about a paper sign hung over vegetables,” I said.

Irwin looked relaxed, yet sad.

“Irwin. What’s bothering you? You seem a little … grim today. Maybe I can help. Just tell me.”

“I am the hanged man,” said Irwin, slow and articulate.

“Bosco mentioned something about that. What’s this all about?” I said.

“You really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” I said.

He took a deep breath.

“OK, last night, at about one in the morning, I went down to sit on the bench in front of the Old Dutch Church. I go there a lot … to think … or play my horn, or whatever?Anyway, I went there last night with this pack of Tarot cards that I bought at the New Age shop,” he said.

“Idyllica?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been in there too,” I said.

“Well … I had been talking to my friend Jake about Tarot cards. His mother is a psychic and she reads cards for people, and Jake said that if you have a pack, all you have to do is think about the one thing you’re asking to know about, spread them out, and pick one. He told me that the picture on the card and the title of it would be enough to figure out what it mean. So, last night, at the bench in front of the Old Dutch Church, I spread the cards out and thought about the one thing that I think about at least a hundred times a day. ‘What will happen to me when I leave this town?’ Basically … I asked to know the future. So I picked the card, and there it was … The Hanged Man.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“So what did the card look like?” I said.

I felt more like his friend. I always had.

Irwin covered his face with his hands, pulled them down his face, and said through his fingers, “Like a curse.”

“Explain.” I said.

“It was a painting of a man, Renaissance looking, tights, Robin Hood shoes … and he was hanging, but not by his neck. He was tied to a tree, a weird tree, it looked like the letter T, hung by his foot, or ankle, whatever. His expression was … empty, and his other leg, the free one, was bent into his waist. He was just hanging.?But the point is. He was doomed. He couldn’t go anywhere! Jesus Christ. That’s what my future is? I’m going to be tied to a tree, on display? Shit, Mr. Bouchard, that’s where I am now. I already am the Hanged Man. I guess I have no future.”
His voice was loud and it cracked when he got excited.

“Wait a second Irwin… I’m sorry, but I won’t believe that,” I said.

Irwin looked at the ground.

“Listen,” I said. “ If someone like Bosco came up to me and said ‘I have no future’, I’d probably say nothing … or, maybe I’d agree with him. But you? No. No way. You know Irwin, this whole town, at one point or another, has been mesmerized by you, by your talent. You do know how good you are at that saxophone, right?”
Irwin took his eyes off the floor, raised his head, and grinned.

…..

When I hear Irwin play the bubble lifts from New Guernsey.

…..

“Irwin, you take people away from their own worries about the future. Everybody’s fixed on the future. Hell, I bet half of the newspaper reading public only buys it for their daily horoscopes. But … your talent … your talent can make someone forget about that for a moment,” I said.

“Thanks Mr. Bouchard but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about wanting to know what kind of day I’m going to have, or if romance or money is in my near future.”

“I know Irwin.”

“Actually … It’s not the near future I care about at all. I’m talking about destiny. I didn’t ask the deck about tomorrow, or even next year really. I asked to know my fate, and the answer I got was the goddamned Hanged Man.”

His face turned red.

“Irwin, listen. If you want to get philosophical, fine. Let me explain what I’m saying.”

I was very calm and gentle.

“OK, boss,” he said.

“The point I’m trying to make is when you play the saxophone, I don’t know, or do I even care to know, what time it is. It’s like you rip me out of the forward course of my life. Rather, there is only this…myriad of sounds and expressions that you fill my whole consciousness with. That’s your talent, Irwin. You erase time and fill it with sounds, and those sounds … I don’t know much about music. I don’t know what scales you’re using or what the chords and stuff are. But you make those sounds into feelings, and they become the audience’s feelings. That’s it. There’s no future, only emotions ….
And that’s an incredible talent, one that will, no doubt, take you very far from New Guernsey, and maybe even that’s why you picked the card. You asked to know your destiny, and maybe that’s it. You already have your destiny, it’s your talent, and there’s no escape from it … and there’s no reason to escape from it either. But, Irwin. Don’t think that means you won’t travel. The guy’s only hung by one foot, right?”

Irwin nodded.

“Well, damn Irwin. All he has to do is kind of a stomach crunch. He can grab the rope, and untie himself if he wants to go anywhere… Do I make sense?”

Irwin smiled.

“C’mon, Irwin. Nobody knows the future. Not a deck of cards or a fortune teller. Those are just gimmicks that give hope to sad people, for people who won’t make a future for themselves. You just keep playing, and I guarantee that you’ll have quite a journey ahead of you,” I said.

Irwin looked up at me. He was calm, but still he showed the same melancholy that he did every day. Irwin was simply a forlorn, brooder of a young man, for other reasons, I was sure.

…..

When I walked up to get my high school diploma the crowd was quiet. There were bandages wrapped around my hand.

…..

“You want to talk about something else?” I said.

“Sure, why not. What’d you have in mind?”

“Well … Have you applied to any colleges yet?”

“… Only one,” he said with a sigh.

“Only one?”

“One…. The City Music School. It’s the only place I want to go.”

“Well. When do you expect to hear from admissions?”

“I have an audition in March. It’s a good school, but I heard that saxophone players are a dime-a-dozen down there.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but you’ll get in. I can’t believe that they wouldn’t accept you.”

“Actually, boss…” he said.

His voice was more certain and steady.

“I’m not worried about getting in … . I don’t want to sound cocky, but … you’re right. I know I’m good. It’s just my fath…?”

His fists clenched, and he ground his teeth. His eyes opened up wide and angry. He seemed to try very hard not to lose control.

“What about your father?” I said.

I leaned forward and put my elbows on my desk. I cupped my fist.

Irwin raised his head, and shook it. Slowly, his brow furrowed. I waited for him to speak. I wasn’t going to push it. He’d probably exploded if I had.  So I waited.

Irwin’s eyes were covered in a still, shield of gloss.

“My father,” Irwin said through his teeth.

He paused and took in a deep gust of a breath.

“My father said he’d rather sell health insurance in Bangladesh than pay twenty-thousand dollars a year to make me a faggot. My father said the only thing music school would give me is good technique with reach-arounds and experience handling the discomfort of a thong. My father  said ‘Why should I pay for that when Mr. Thompson,’ my music teacher, ‘would pack my fudge for free.’ My father said?”

“Irwin, enough. I get it,” I said.

“No you don’t Mr. Bouchard…. You know why?”

His face was spread and tight.

“Why Irwin?”

“Because of the thousands of the thousands of things like that I have heard form my father this week?You can only bear to hear three. Just three, and you make me stop. I can go on and on, but you can’t handle it. I’m sorry boss, but you don’t get it…and you’re very lucky that you don’t.”

He clenched his face and fists until he trembled.

“You’re right Irwin…. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck it,” he said.

I watched him as he scratched his head.

…..

Whenever I did anything bad as a child my mother still wouldn’t yell at me. She’d just get very sullen and disappointed. Sometimes she’d cry and say, “What were you thinking?” Every time I made a mistake or tried to hide a report card, or a test I failed, or a permission slip I forged, or if I hung up on a teacher when he or she called my home to tell my mom that I hadn’t done my homework, my mom would find out and she’d come upstairs, look at me and say, “What were you thinking?”

…..

“You want a cup of coffee?” I said.

“Sure.”

“…You know, Bosco’s a real pain in the ass, but at least he always makes sure that I have a full pot of coffee when I get here,” I said.

“He made it this morning. It’s probably burnt by now.”

“I like it that way,” I said.

I got up and poured us each a mug. Irwin looked like he needed to calm down.

I realized that the strong cup of coffee I was giving to him wasn’t going to calm his nerves at all, but a moment for him to take his mind off his father might help.

…..

I heard them talk at Lester’s party. I was only standing around the corner.

“He left her standing at the alter?I heard he went to work instead?Yeah, and I don’t understand why he stopped boxing?He could have been great?Yeah, and look at him now, running the grocery store?I guess it was nice of Mr. Turner to give him the store?Yeah, the guy needs help?It’s sad?I wonder why he left her.”

What right did they have to wonder what my motives were. These were the people I was feeding?

…..

“Here you go.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“So what about your mother. I know she doesn’t have the same opinions as your father. She always says how proud she is of you.”

“Thanks mom,” he said and rolled is eyes.

“C’mon Irwin, give your mother a break.”

“No way Mr. Bouchard. My mother’s no help. Dad’s got her so high on dollar signs that even if she thought of contradicting him, she couldn’t. He might take her allowance away.”

“Really?”

“You know how much crap she’s bought? I can’t even begin to tell you. A hot tub for the porch, closet organizers to hold the thousands of outfits she buys and only wears around the house because Dad’s too drunk to take her anywhere. I came home one day and she was wearing this red gown, and she was frying chicken on the George Forman Lean Machine Grill, a loaf of white bread baking in the Easy-Does-It Breadmaker, slicing imported tomatoes with her Millennium Series Ginsu Knives. The kitchen big screen TV is playing her DVD of the Great Gatsby, she’s got a $300 pair of shoes on and a glass of Dom Perrignon on the marble counter top … and I don’t know why she bothers cooking. Dad’s just going to vomit and say ‘Kim, with all that fancy shit, do you think you could make a dinner that stays down where it’s supposed to?’… Please…If she goes against him he’ll just take away the Visa, and forbid her from going to Vegas Night with the few other rich wives in town.”
“So, she’s no help, huh?”

“Basically…. If I don’t get a full scholarship, then I can’t go. It’s pretty simple, boss,” he said.

“Alright, but what about loans?”

“I looked into that. Basically, being only 18, emancipated or not, the most I could borrow would be about four of five grand, and that barely covers books and living costs… No… I need a full scholarship.

He looked certain that he was right, like he was a teacher and I his student.

I had money to give, and impeccable credit.

“Well, Irwin…”

“What?” he said.

“Personally, I don’t see any way that you don’t get that scholarship.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it’s like I said before. Saxophone players are a dime-a-dozen down there, and…from what I understand, they give out the scholarships to the instruments they need more of, mostly rhythm players and trombonists. They don’t base scholarships purely on the talent of the person,” he said.

I hesitated for a moment.

“OK. Irwin, I know this really isn’t my place to offer, but I’ll make a deal with you.”

He looked me straight in the eye.

“What?” he said.

“Well, if you don’t get what you need from the school, then…I’ll take you to my bank and I’ll co-sign a loan for whatever you need. I still think that there’s a chance you do get full scholarship, but if you don’t…I will help you.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“Nope, just ask me when it’s time.”

Irwin relaxed his shoulders and his lips arched a small smile.

“Thank you…I guess…I didn’t expect?thank you.”

“Just do me a favor,” I said.

“Sure…anything.”

His voice got higher.

“Well…two favors.”

“Anything you want,” he said.

He grinned, leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his coffee.

“Practice…Nail the audition. It’s your ticket out of here you know.”

“I know boss,” he said.

“Get psyched Irwin, it’s college, and college is a great thing. New friends, lots of fun, lots of girls.”

“Actually boss, that brings up another thing,” he said.

I felt important to him. I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my coffee. It was thick and strong.

“What now Irwin?”

“Well. I’ve grown up in New Guernsey, which, as you know, is a college town. I’ve seen the kids outside of the bars, throwing up on the street. I see them hook-up, groping and kissing on their way home together, making out on the corner of Main Street, and…I’m not so sure I can fit into that. That whole scene has disgusted me my whole life. It just seems so…careless, to me… I have to admit that having the town drunk for a father can really turn one off to alcohol. But…girls…that’s different. I’d love to find someone, but…I’ve never kissed a girl. Honestly, I don’t think I know how.”

“That’s easy to fix,” I said.

“Yeah, get a girlfriend.”

“Of course, but I’m talking about…knowing how to kiss.”

Irwin squirmed.

“Alright, I’m sorry I brought this up. This is a little too weird of a conversation to be having with my boss,” he said.

“There’s a trick Irwin.”

“What?”

“A trick, or at least something to think about for that first kiss.”

Irwin crossed his arms, laughed through his nose and blushed.

“Alright, entertain me. What’s the trick?” he said.

“No, forget it. You don’t want to know,” I said.

“As long as the trick doesn’t involve you getting out of that chair, I’m all ears.”

“Tattoo.”

“What?”

“Tattoo.”

“You think I should get a tattoo. What, chicks dig tattoos, right. Sorry but I’m not doing that,” he said.

“No…You just say the word.”

“Mr. Bouchard, quit being so vague. I’m getting uncomfortable.”

“Listen. You’re with a girl, you’re going to kiss. You get her close and say ‘Ta’, but you don’t say it really, you just do the motion… Then you plant your lips on her and finish the word. Tattoo,” I said.

“That’s pretty stupid,” he said.

“I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Who told you that?”

“This guy Martin who I used to train with when I was younger. He gave me that bit of advice before I went on my first date, and it worked … Tattoo.”

…..

I lost my virginity to Sally Bronson in the 11th grade. My mother was at work and Sally came over to my house. I’ll never forget it, even though the sex was awkward. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, and…I came pretty quick. But the unforgettable part is that we didn’t use protection, and I didn’t pull out. It was a dangerous choice, and I won, nothing happened. I remember losing my virginity as one of the luckiest moments of my life.

…..

I smiled.

“Tattoo, huh… I’ll let you know.”

“Fine, and about this concern you have with college, “ I said. “This is a college town, but you’re talking about going to school in New York City. Trust me. It’s nothing like here, at all.”

“OK…. But, I’m not going to drink.”

“You’re a better man then I was when I started college. Smarter too.”

“I don’t know.”

He stood up and finished his coffee.

“Go do some work, Irwin.”

“?Oh, what’s the other favor?” he said.

“What?”

“You said you had two favors to ask me.”

“Oh, yeah.” I paused. “Dammit, will you just do what Bosco asks you to do, whatever it is? You’re probably the smartest person working here. I don’t think changing price signs or stacking bags of salt is going to stretch you beyond your abilities. Please…. I don’t want to have to listen to Bosco whine first thing when I enter the store,” I said.

“OK.”

He pushed the chair to his side. He looked happier.

I felt important, and happy myself.

…..

I also believe that truth is beauty.

…..

Irwin walked over to the door, and then he turned around and faced me again.

“Hey, boss,” he said, with one hand on the doorknob behind him.

“What?”

“About the music in this store. I brought a CD…do you think we could play it?

“I’ve told you about that Irwin. I think that if I play your CDs then everybody else is going to want to play their CDs and I imagine it might get a little chaotic,” I said.

“Oh…OK…”

He started to turn the knob.

“What is it?” I said.

“What is what?”

“The CD,” I said.

“Oh…It’s…Erik Satie.”

“Who’s that?”

A French Impressionist composer. It’s a CD of his piano music. It’s probably my favorite CD.”

“Well, do you think I could listen to it while I do some paperwork?”

“Sure.”

He walked to my desk and gave it to me.

“Thanks, Irwin?Oh, wait…. Make sure to tell everyone that I yelled at you and told you that one more screw-up might mean your job. Tell them I said something managerial like, ‘If you’re serious about the future then you’re serious about today,’ alright?”

“OK.”

“And apologize to Bosco, and ask him to give you something to do.”

“OK.”

“And, Irwin…”

“Yes?”

“Do it, please.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll talk to you later, then.”

Irwin left.

I took a big sip of my coffee.

At that moment, more than anything, I wanted to be Irwin Jones. I wanted to stand in front of Lester. I wanted Lester to confront me, so I could knock him out, and have the town breathe a sigh of relief.

…..

Outside of the Lexington Resort in upstate New York it rained. It looked like a million fire hoses were being sprayed from the clouds. The thunder sounded like a symphony of explosions, each entrance perfectly timed with the high points of my anxiety. This would be the last time I ever boxed, and I was more determined to win than I was for any fight before.

I first heard the announcer call the main event, the State Heavyweight Collegiate Championship Bout. Coach and I stood in the hallway, outside of the converted ballroom. I kept jumping up and down. I grunted and was already shimmering with sweat. Thunder outside roared through the walls, and all I could think about was the fat man as he rolled around on the floor … and couldn’t get up. I win, I win, I win. Coach asked me if I was ready and all I could say to him was, “I win, I win, I win.”

Coach didn’t seem his normal, vulgar self. He didn’t scream at me or tell me to get mentally prepared. He didn’t tell me to move my ass or to switch over to kill mode. He just looked at me. He looked certain that this fight would go my way.

The announcer called my name and then the doors opened. The crowd jumped…. Not only the crowd from my school, although I could tell that they were the loudest. But everybody there roared. I was hardly unknown. The whole state had heard about my perfect college record. They chanted “Bear, Bear, Bear.”

“Heeeeere heeeeee is,” the announcer called long, loud and slow. “From New Guernsey State, Benjamin Bouchard. The Bear.”

The screaming almost covered the thunder, but not entirely. On top of the whistles, chants and celebrations, the explosions of the storm blew loud and forceful. The ground shook with tumult.

I walked, as I shifted my glance to the many different, screaming faces. I looked for the fat man, but I could not find him. Max and Cary were in the front row. They too were screaming. I looked at them.

Cary smiled and I nodded to her. The fight was on my mind.

When we got to the ring I first saw my opponent. He was very big. He was bald and black. He looked mean, and he never took his eyes off of me. He had much more sweat on him than I. He was loose, and ready, and he didn’t look any less determined than I did. However, he didn’t look nearly as angry.

Where was the fat man? I knew he was watching, probably still wondering if I was going to fall for him. I wasn’t going to. At that moment I could have taken a lightning bolt to the chest and stayed on my feet if it meant that the fat man would lose his bet.

“Alright Bear,” Coach said. “This is it, the State fucking Championship. You’re at most twelve rounds away from being the best in the state. The best. Now get this shit, Bear. You’re un-fuckin-stoppable.”
I nodded, and then he put in my mouthpiece. The gloves were tight and my hands felt only like fists.

“Bear, now listen. I don’t know what that shit was before, and I guess you’re not going to tell me?and fuck that , I don’t care. But listen…whatever it was that gave you the strength to toss that fat fuck clear across the room I want you to hold on to. I’ve never seen you that fucking strong. Now…. Are you ready,” he said.

“I win, I win, I win.”

“Not yet asshole…but you will,” he said.

The announcer called out our records, and what we weighed in as. Then he called my opponent and I to the center.

Thunder. Thunder.

He looked so determined as he shot an evil gaze into my eyes. I looked back. At first I shot back the same glance, but soon I didn’t see him at all. Instead I saw the fat man. I even smelled his breath. I made a hateful squint, and then I noticed my opponent look a little less confident.

The ref told us the rules, but you never listen to them … you just stare? I win, I win, I win.

We then went to our corners. Coach massaged my shoulders. “Start out slow,” he said. “Jabs, body shots, figure out how he moves, and if you can…counter those motions?and Bear…beat the fuck out of this asshole.”

“I win, I win, I win.”

The bell rang, and thunder burst. He ran at me faster than any opponent had before. He threw two jabs, and then lunged. Our arms got tangled. We pushed each other and stuck our gloves in the other’s throat. It didn’t hurt, but the scramble can be disorientating. The referee broke us apart.

He ran to me again. I was on the defense, landing a few jabs, missing a few. He threw wild hooks and a second before we’d lock in a grapple he’d always throw an uppercut. I watched him. He always shifted his head far to the opposite side of his jab, and he dropped his left before he threw an overhand right. I countered him when he did that, landing a few solid rights on his rib cage. That usually stopped his advance. It kind of made him hop back a bit. That’s when I’d move forward and drop repeated jabs on his face. When he saw that he was in trouble he’d grab me. We grappled and shoved for a while. He pushed the top of is head into my forehead, and sometimes he’d butt me. That hurt a little, but that’s the game, dishing out pain. I had him against the ropes when the bell rang.

Good first round. I figured out how he worked, how he moved. He really leaned into his power shots but his arm came up from a very low starting point. If I could catch him on the side of his face as he threw one then the force of my punch coupled with the momentum of his body would add up to more than enough force to drop him … hard. That was my plan for the next round.

“Alright, get your ass moving?you understand?” said Coach.

“Yes.”

“You’re letting him hit you.”

“Just seeing how he works.”

“Fuck you, just seeing how he works. See with your eyes, not your face,” he said.

“I got him Coach.”

“Alright. Knock this fuck out. I’m ready to go home. This resort smells like old farts.”

“I win, I win, I win.”

Thunder?Thunder?Thunder.

The bell rang.

This time I came out fast, but I lead southpaw, setting myself up to deliver a big left. He threw a few jabs, and most of them missed. A few caught the side of my face but right as I saw him tense up his right, I lunged and threw a huge, straight left. He leaned into it and when it hit his face he fell right between my legs. I had punched through him.

The crowd jumps up screaming. I win, I win, I win. The ref pushes me away as he’s counting. My opponent rolls to his stomach, shaking his head, up on his knees, he pushes himself to his feet by seven. The ref checks him out, and my opponent nods.

Thunder?Thunder?Thunder

He rushes right at me, pushing me into the ropes. We grapple and bump and head butt. Thunder?Thunder?Thunder. And then all the lights in the ballroom go out?and half a second after, in the dark, my opponent delivers an uppercut that feels like it pushes my nose right into my brain … and I fall down, for the first time in my boxing history.

It was dark. A blur of voices was all around me. I was confused. I heard footsteps shuffle around me. I felt a tug on my arm. I panicked, my heart skipped, my body froze and my hands were tight fists. I heard a voice, and a silhouette stood over me.

“Bear, get your ass up. The lights went out. C’mon … it wasn’t a legal hit.”

I could hear the roar of the crowd, and the thunder outside. I was scared.

“C’mon, Bear. Get the fuck up or you’ll be disqualified.”

Coach grabbed hard and pulled me to my knees. I flinched when I first felt him grab me, but then I came back to my senses. I knew where I was. I knew what was going on, even if it was dark all around me…. I stood up and Coach walked me to my corner.

“That … fucking bastard. He hit you after the lights went out. What cheap goddamned shit is that? He should be disqualified. Miserable, scared fucking bitch … I should go talk to the ref.”

“No Coach,” I said. “Let it go. I’m alright. He got lucky, that’s all.”

“Why didn’t you keep your guard up? What’s the matter with you?… I’d put my fucking arms up if I was in a grapple and the fucking lights went out,” he said.

“I got startled, that’s all…. I’m fine.”

“Fine. Let’s just wait this out. Stay loose though, it ain’t over.”

We sat there in the dark for a while. Soon the ref, the announcer, and a few other people came out with flashlights. They called Coach to the center of the ring.

I was angry then, and I hardly paid attention to the dark. It was a cheap shot, and he put me to the ground with it. I’ve never hit the ground, and I wasn’t fond of it. My opponent stopped being real then. He was more of a beast, he was a shadow in the dark, and for the first time I wasn’t afraid. I knew exactly what stood in front of me. He was a stalker, a fat-fuck, a school bully, a nobody and a demon, and I was ready to beat him. Dark or light, it was an all-heart battle from then on. The fear was in my head and I turned it off. I felt like beating him to shreds.

Coach walked back to the corner, a flashlight held in his hand.

“No legal knock-down, Bear. They’re going to start the round from the time it was when the lights went. They’ve got auxiliary power, and it should be on soon.”

Thunder?Thunder?Thunder

“You hear me, Bear,” he said.

I could only nod.

“Get ready, now. So he hit you. Big fucking deal. Did it hurt?”

I shook my head.

“Now. You gonna knock his goddamn head off, right?”

I nodded.

“What do you say,” he said.

“I win, I win, I win.”

The lights came on, and the ref came to both corners to confirm that we were ready to fight. The crowd screamed again. I heard them chant “Bear, Bear, Bear,” and then the bell rang.
This time he came at me fast. I stepped into him and jabbed hard, hit him repeatedly in the face. He moved back, punch after punch until his back was against the ropes. The crowd’s enthusiasm grew. “Bear, Bear, Bear.”

I win, I win, I win.

Thunder?Thunder?Thunder

I threw hard overhand rights, each landing on his face. I felt his nose crunch, his body cowl as I hit his face. I felt blood spray, hit my face, and as I hit him I grunted and I wanted him to hear what I grunted. “Bully, fat fuck, fat fuck, bully, fat fuck, fat fuck, fat fuck, fat fuck.”

The ref jumped between us, and when he did my opponent slid off the ropes onto the canvas. The fight was over. The crowd screamed, the announcer called my name as the State Heavyweight Collegiate Champion, and I looked at my gloves. They shone with my opponent’s blood …

… It took ten minutes for him to get his feet back, and his face was still bleeding. When I went over to shake his hand he looked at me like I was a demon coming to eat his heart him.

…..

I sat in my office for a while and drew a blank until I spotted Irwin’s paycheck was in front of me. I felt like Irwin Jones, stuck in New Guernsey, the Hanged Man … but I didn’t know why Irwin had picked my card.